My Baby Never Shot Me Down
by Weaver of the Tangled Web
Summary: What if the Massacre at Two Pines never happened? What if Bill made one last sacrifice for Beatrix Kiddo?
1. Genesis

Prologue

In that obnoxious Texan drawl, the drawl that she had resigned herself to hear for the rest of her life, the preacher called, "Some of us have places we got to be, honey!"

She and Bill shared something of a sympathetic smile, before, with arms wrapped around her bulging tummy, they turned and entered the shabby little wedding chapel. Her assassin's nerves had steeled her, contorted her face into one of placidity; for all appearances, she was as content with Bill's presence as anyone else. Inside, however, her anxiety was running full course; the baby felt it, and gave a hearty kick to the wall of her stomach, causing her to give a little, "Oh!"

This, of course, went unnoticed by the two men who were advancing on one another. Bill had taken on the stance of a gunslinger, and looked ready to threaten Tommy to make his day; Tommy, on the other hand, was grinning like the sweet fool that he was, and was already reaching forward to take Bill's hand.

"Tommy, this is my father. Daddy, this is Tommy," she said, smiling nervously between the two of them.

"Hi there," Tommy gushed, before adding in, "Dad!"

She winced, and so did Bill. "_Bill _is the name," he said in that gravelly voice; she saw Tommy's green eyes flicker, and knew he'd gotten the message—and yet, true to form, he never shed a drop of good old southern hospitality; already he was clapping Bill on the arm, and welcoming him, and expressing his delight that he had not, in fact, spent the wedding in a mine in Perth.

After the small-talk had been made, and Bill had leaned himself against one of the pews on the bride's side of the chapel, she looped her arm into Tommy's, and made her casual advance down the aisle. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled beneath Bill's studied gaze; she felt her spine crawling, as if it sought to be released from her body so that it might escape his scrutiny.

The preacher led them through their vows, Tommy making his with as much heartfelt sincerity as he would the next day, during the real ceremony. She tried to match his vivacity, but failed; too much of her mind was on Bill, and his actions. To his credit, however, he made only a single motion during the entire ordeal, and that was to inconspicuously rub his mouth upon Tommy's reading a particularly cheesy vow; and, she had the suspicion that his eyes were mocking her, throughout her own vows.

"By the power vested in me, by church and state, I now pronounce you, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Goodwin. Son," he said with a grin, "you may now kiss the bride."

Beatrix darted her eyes over at Bill, very quickly, and then gave a quick laugh. "We better save that for tomorrow, don't you think, Tommy?"

He laughed as well, and nodded. "Yeah, I reckon you're right."

She pushed her arm through his again, and tossed her little fake-bouquet to her friends seated in the pews. They giggled, and caught it, and then giggled again. Beatrix looked up at Bill, and locked eyes with him. Her own had grown misty with tears, but she barely needed to see at all to be drawn to his gaze; he would always, she knew, have that power over her.

"_Thank you,"_ she mouthed.

He gave a nod of his silver head, and offered her a slight smile. Even now, she felt as if her stomach had dropped to the floor, when he smiled at her.

Somewhere deep within her mind, she felt a sensation similar to that of déjà vu; far back in her mental recesses, she heard a distant echo of her own voice. "Bill... It's your bab—"

"Honey?"

Her eyes snapped over to Tommy's, and she gave a half-hearted smile. "Sorry. I'm feeling a bit faint."

Immediately he had a hand on her lower back, and another on her arm. "Well come on, then. Let's get you home, so you can get some rest for tomorrow." She gave him a teary smile, though still she felt unsettled by the vision she had just seen. As they moved down the aisle, she again looked for Bill.

He was gone.


	2. Exodus

_A/N -- Although I've already received a very flattering review, I am not at all pleased with my first chapter. I feel that I breezed through it far too quickly, and did not do it nearly the justice it deserved. Therefore, the chapter you now see is a re-write. The first half is pretty much the same, with a few small details added in; the second half, however, will be very much different--so, please disregard the former chapter as nonexistent. :)  
Best regards,  
The Weaver._

Exodus

She was six pounds lighter, and four years older, and no one had ever gotten into the habit of calling her "the Bride", except for the few days before, and one day after, her wedding ceremony. There had been no romantic and bloody _coup de grâce_; Bill had not even come to her ceremony, which had taken a bit of explaining, and had in secret broken her heart, though she had put on a brave face.

The most exciting thing to happen during her ceremony, in fact, had been the attempted lifting of her bulky pregnant body, by Tommy, and the subsequent tumble the newlyweds had taken when he proved to be too weak for the task. It had ended in laughter, however; the only wound to be found amongst the revelers was a single bruise on Beatrix's—no, Arlene's—thigh.

It was strange, for there was some irrepressible feeling, sitting just below her heart, encased in something that felt similar to a snow globe—some emotion that she could not quite define, but neither could ignore, that insisted that she should not be as content in her life as she was on that day. And always running through her head was that imagined breath of vocals that had planted itself in her mind during the rehearsal:

"_Bill... It's your bab—"_

She was not sure why her ghost-voice never finished the word; there was always an impression of a very loud ringing in her ears after the word was cut off, and after hearing it enough times she had begun to develop a headache at the base of her skull, and along the left side of her head

Tommy did not like the name Beatrix Belinda—chosen because "Belinda" was the closest she could think of to "Bill"—but allowed his wife to name his daughter that all the same. B.B. was born with a mop of unruly brown curls already crowning her soft head, and eyes that were a perfect image of Bill's. It was somewhat unsettling to hear Tommy proclaim, in all innocence, "Why, Arlene, she's the spittin' image of your father!" –Unsettling for several reasons, but mostly because it was undeniably true.

And now B.B. was about to turn four; in only a week, her birthday would roll around, and the date had so crept up on her absent-minded mother that she had been thrown into a frenzy trying to prepare for it. The local Wal-Mart had been her fall-back; a few presents were in order, in spite of her and Tommy's tight budget; a cake order needed to be placed, candles needed buying, and she was just itching to buy a "Happy Birthday!" banner to hang over her daughter's head. She had a perfect image in her mind of the ideal birthday—especially one that would celebrate not only another year of life and ideality, but also a celebration of an end to the Terrible Two's.

True to her father's image, B.B. was insufferable, even at such a young age--Arlene was hoping it was actually _because _of her young age, rather than _in spite of _it. Her vocabulary was already preparing to rival her mother's—in two years, Arlene predicted she would be as well-spoken as the average thirteen year old, though hopefully minus the slang and cursing, and with her speech not impaired by a steady stream of pot smoke.

As Arlene gathered her keys and pulled on a clean shirt--B.B. had spilled a bit of spaghetti sauce on her original shirt, during the dinner which, Arlene was proud to say, they had eaten together as a family--she stopped to check her reflection in the mirror. Her hair had grown longer, and now lay in very loose curls on her shoulders. She had kept her figure, refusing to grow an ass and a stomach simultaneously, as so many other mothers did. Her daily workout regime had been picked up as soon as B.B. had slipped from her body, and she had kept it up without fail; her body was in the same condition in which it had been in her assassin's days.

But no, she did not allow herself to think of those days anymore. The closest she came was a habit of going through drills with her kitchen knives, while cooking supper—and of course, many of the exercises in her fitness program were suggestive of darker motives, though she pretended to do them merely for the benefit they offered her body.

She turned away from the mirror with a shake of her head, and began pulling her hair back into a loose pony tail as she walked towards the door. "I'll be back!" she called to Tommy, before snatching up her keys and wallet, and darting out into the twilight.

As she pushed a cart around the store, looking idly at the display stands, she found herself thinking of the man who never long left her mind—and it was not her husband. Those eyes that always penetrated down much farther than she wanted them to seemed even now to bore into her soul, and she had to suppress a shudder. It was as if even to think of him could allow him access to her life, and that was the last thing she wanted.

Oh, but how Fate makes mockery of the human mind! For she had hardly banished Bill from her thoughts, when a face vaguely reminiscent of his appeared at the opposite end of the aisle. Immediately she spun, pressing her back against the cart's handle. She could not turn her cart around without calling more notice to herself, and so with a deep breath, she moved to look at a display of folders hanging nearby. Try though she did to immerse herself in them, she found she could still feel Budd's every movement as he worked his way slowly down the aisle. She did not see, but _felt _him as he leaned over to glance curiously into her cart, and then turned wicked eyes on her form.

He came up beside her, and crouched down to admire some manila envelopes. Fingering them mindlessly, he locked his eyes onto nearby index cards, and began speaking in a quiet murmur. "Hello there, Bea."

"I don't know you," she whispered back harshly, before moving off and wrapping her hands around her cart's handle in a death grip. He followed, however, and was so bold as to fall into step beside her.

"I heard you had gotten married down here in El Paso, but Lord knows I didn't believe it." He cast a doubting eye at her left hand, and then at the contents of her cart; one eyebrow raised, as if he had not seen the very same items only moments prior. "But I guess I can't refuse the evidence that's before me, can I?"

"I. Don't. Know. You," she repeated, this time briefly meeting his gaze, to prove her sincerity. "Leave me be, Budd."

He chuckled. "I thought you didn't know me?"

"Go away!"

Silence ensued for a moment, though he did not part ways. It was not until she had stopped to look at the cakes on display that he again spoke, this time in tones that suggested warning. "You know, there've been inquiries made, about your location. Far as I know, no one's spoken up, but…" He shrugged. "I'd keep an eye out, if I were you."

She paused, and looked at him. "I'm not in this business anymore."

"Doesn't matter, and you know it. _They're_ still in the business, and that's all they care about." He leaned a little closer, and put a hand on her back. "Look, all I'm saying is, watch your back." With that, he gave her a pinch, and slipped away.

She rubbed at the sore spot idly while perusing the cakes, and trying to keep her expression nonchalant. A nearby clerk, standing behind the bakery's counter, was watching her with widened eyes. She wondered if he had overheard, or merely suspected her of lechery.

When she got home, Tommy was waiting for her on the couch, with B.B. asleep in his lap. His eyes never left the television screen, though he managed a greeting upon her initial entry. She dragged her grocery bags in as quietly as she could, and set them down on the kitchen counter. When she turned around to put things away, she found him standing there watching her.

"Did you find everything?" he asked, voice weary.

"Yeah," she answered, turning to stow things away in the cabinets. "They said I could pick up the _ake-kay_," she winked, "on Wednesday."

He nodded, and moved to help her. A few faults had shown themselves during their three years together, but they were few and far between, and insignificant enough; by and large, he had turned out to be a good husband indeed.

"Are you going to invite any of her friends from the daycare?"

"No," she answered without hesitation. "I think this should be just a family thing."

Tommy frowned a bit as he tucked the big "4" candle behind a mixer bowl, along with the box of more uniform candles. "You are really starting to isolate her, Arlene. You're going to make her completely friendless."

She ducked her head. "I know…" How could she explain? She could not say that she feared for B.B.'s life, feared that she would be seen by the wrong person—even in El Paso, there were _people_, people like Budd, who would know her, and know B.B., and know whose eyes B.B. had. There were too many risks involved, but even more risks involved with telling Tommy the truth.

"Can you finish up in here?" she asked gently. "I want to put her to bed. It's getting late."

He nodded wordlessly, never even looking at her. With a sigh, she left the kitchen, and gently scooped her daughter up into her arms. As she carried her to her room, she felt her squirm lightly, and wrap her chubby arms around her mother's neck. Her sweet little lips pressed against the side of that long, thin neck, and Arlene felt her daughter's cheek brush her own jaw line. With a soft and loving smile, she progressed down the hallway, and ever so carefully lay B.B. down on her bed. She immediately curled up and returned to sleep, as only a child can; unable to resist the lure of her cherub-like daughter, Arlene lowered herself onto the narrow bed beside B.B., and curled around her, as if to shield her.

"I love you," she whispered into her daughter's tiny ear, and the little child responded by uttering a sleepy and unintelligible murmur.

Arlene felt as if her heart would swell to unimaginable sizes within her chest, so overwhelmed was she by love for this little child. She resisted the urge to squeeze her daughter tight against her; early on, she had learned that a child's only reaction to that was complaint. Instead, she contented herself with smelling her hair, and listening to her breathe.

As she fell asleep next to her daughter, she heard Bill's voice whispering in her ear; she struggled to ignore it, and found herself dwelling instead on Budd and his ominous words. There had been inquiries… She needed to watch her back… She did not realize how literal a meaning his words had taken on, for behind her, there was a dark face peeking in the window of her daughter's room, watching with menacing eyes the homey scene that was playing out in the glow of B.B.'s nightlight.

* * *

Three days later, Arlene awoke late; it was almost nine-thirty before she had showered and dressed. Tommy had done her the kindness of taking B.B. to daycare; he knew she had more than enough work on her hands, without B.B. running underfoot. She was just pushing her wet hair back from her face, when she heard footsteps in the kitchen. In spite of herself, she smiled. "Tommy?" she called. "What are you doing up here? You should be at work!"

He did not answer, which only caused her smile to brighten. "Tommy? Honey, what are you doing?" She left their bedroom with her shirt still half-off, and wandered into the kitchen. "Tom-- _What the fuck!_" She darted quickly back around the corner, and yanked her shirt over her head. When she again entered the kitchen, her expression was one of total anger. "Budd, what do you think you're doing here?" she snapped, almost unthinkingly snatching up a nearby knife.

Budd was laughing hysterically in his seat at her kitchen counter; for a moment, he was incapable of answering her question. The glint of the knife, however, threatened him into action. "Alright, alright. Calm down. I just thought I'd drop in, and see how things were going."

"They were fine, until you showed up," she growled, advancing slowly into the kitchen. She looked carefully around the corner and into the living room, and then chanced a look behind her.

"Don't worry," he said, his voice almost peevish. "I'm alone."

Slowly, she set the knife aside, and began fixing herself a bowl of cereal. "What are you doing here, Budd? First you just _happen _to be in El Paso, at the same Wal-Mart, and now you manage to turn up at my apartment?"

One shoulder shrugged. "I thought you might could use some company."

She hurled her spoon at him with enough force to plant it a few centimeters into the wall behind his head.

He chuckled some more, though there was a look in his eyes that told her she'd startled him. "Now, Bea, there's no call for violence."

"_Arlene_," she said pointedly.

"Just another code name for Beatrix," he said nonchalantly, eyes turning to the grime beneath his fingernails. "Regardless of what name you go by, you're still Black Mamba to anyone who matters."

"The only people who matter now," she told him, "are Tommy and B.B."

A grin spread across his lips. "You keep tellin' yourself that."

With a snarl, she cocked the cereal bowl for a throw. He needed no other invitation to leave; he was out the door before the bowl shattered against the spoon in the wall.

* * *

That night, as she stood at the counter violently chopping vegetables for her stew, her mind was so preoccupied that she several times almost chopped off a finger. Budd's constant reappearance in her life--she was certain she had earlier seen him trailing her at the grocery store--was beginning to fray her nerves, and his warnings were less than comforting. Every few minutes she found herself looking up to check on B.B., and resisting the urge to call the record store again to make sure Tommy was still breathing. Already she had called him twice; the second time, she had been very politely and lovingly told to stop calling. Something very similar had occurred with the daycare, the supervisors of which had grown quite exhausted of her constant calls; they had been no less polite, but significantly less affectionate, in telling her to cease and decist.

Suddenly, she heard a creak of the kitchen tiles behind her. Her shoulders went rigid, and her head whipped a bit sideways. No word of greeting was offered to her, such as Tommy usually would; fearing another visitation of Budd--or worse, someone with more violent intentions--she spun and hurled a knife in the direction of the attacker. Her mind registered Tommy's shocked face just barely in time to adjust the path of the knife; at the same time, Tommy ducked, and the knife managed to plant itself only in the wall, and not in her husband's flesh.

"What the hell was that?" he yelled, straightening.

"You... You scared me," she said shakily, immediately spinning back around and moving to again chop vegetables; however, she was severely lacking in a knife, and therefore merely pressed her hands together.

"Arlene, you threw a _knife at me_!"

"You scared me!" she snapped, turning to again face him.

"_You threw a knife at me!_"

"Mommy?"

Both of them turned to look at B.B., standing innocently in the doorway.

Arlene took two steps towards her, and scooped her into her arms. "What is it, baby? What do you need?"

Those big Bill-eyes fastened onto Arlene's, seeming to see much more than they should have. No answer came, however, and soon B.B. was squirming to be set down. With a sigh, Arlene dropped her, and watched her go running into the living room. "Don't run, B.B.!" she called, though the child paid her no mind.

Arlene retrieved the knife, wiped it on her jeans, and resumed hacking apart vegetables. As Tommy swept up a few pieces of plaster and dropped them in the trashcan, she heard him utter another curse. "Did you break a bowl, Arlene?"

"I dropped it," she murmured quickly. "Butterfingers. You know how clumsy I am." She held up a hand, to show him the tiny slice on her index finger. "See? I nearly cut off my finger a moment ago."

His eyes settled questioningly on her finger, and then on her face. That gaze was accusatory, almost angry--but he said nothing.

Arlene swept the vegetables into the pot, and turned on the burner.

* * *

There was a horrible accident on the road between Wal-Mart and her and Tommy's apartment above the used record store; a ten minute drive became an hour-long struggle, and coupled with the line at the supermarket, it was another half-hour before she had gotten back to the point of the accident. True to form, the police had yet to accomplish anything akin to progress; it was another hour before she had left the scene, and was on her way home.

They were throwing B.B. a party a few days early; she was to start school a day before her birthday, and since the cake was ready now anyway, it was easier to just celebrate today. Tommy was closing the store early that day, and Arlene had spent all day in preparation; B.B. had been kept busy with a friend of the family, who had taken her to the park while her mother set up the apartment for the coming spectacle.

As Arlene neared the apartment, she saw more roadblock signs looming ahead. She could not help but groan—"_Another _accident? What the hell?"—but as she got closer, she realized there had been no accident. The record store was surrounded by police tape, and there were professionally-dressed men walking around observing the ground around the store, and the apartment.

Immediately, she was struck with the instinct to spin the car around and make a get-away; this instinct was overcome, however, by the maternal one that demanded she race inside the apartment. The latter instinct was still threatened, though, by the similar maternal instinct to avoid at all costs discovering what damage had been done to her beloved family—but the curiosity was too much to resist.

She tumbled out of the car and went head-long at the line of cops guarding the perimeter. It was with hardly a thought that she shoved them out of the way, and she would have made it to the door of her apartment, had a burly detective not caught her around the waist and swept her, literally, off her feet. "Where do you think you're going?" he demanded; without thinking, she dealt him a staggering blow, and resumed her race up the stairs.

Two cops caught her ankles and dragged her backwards; this time, they were more cautious with how they handled her. "What are you doing here?" one demanded, while the other snapped, "Who are you?"

"Arlene," she managed, between chattering sets of teeth. "Let me go, let me go, that's my family!" Her shoulders twisted violently, and she managed to break their hold; this time, she made it up the outside stairs and into the living room before they caught up with her, and by then, it was pointless to hold her back.

She froze on the landing, her mouth setting into a grim line. There was blood spatter on the walls, and on the "Happy Birthday!" banner hanging across the walkway between living room and kitchen. Her knees buckled, and she fell to the carpet; her friend was spread across the couch, several gaping bullet holes marring her pretty torso. Her face was contorted into one of terror; she had not, apparently, been taken off guard, but rather had had her death dangled before her face for several moments before it had come.

Finding strength, she pushed herself upwards, and stepped carefully amongst the carnage. Two other friends and their children had been there; three children total were now arranged on the floor, one still slowly oozing blood. Nailed to the wall above their bodies was a black mamba, its head ripped off. Arlene clamped a hand over her mouth, but did not waver in her resolution to discover the truth. Tears were flowing quickly down her cheeks, but she did not suppress them as she moved carefully across the kitchen linoleum, slick with blood, towards the bedroom.

Tommy was crumpled beside B.B.'s bed, an old shot gun in his hands. He had been shot at least nine times, perhaps more; he had stood against them until the end. She felt her heart break, though she had not loved him; she could not help but weep for a man who had cared so deeply for herself and her daughter, and who had stood up bravely against forces he could not have imagined. Not knowing why men in suits had come with guns to kidnap his child and slaughter his friends, he had nonetheless fought them, only to protect his family; no other motive had driven him.

She resisted the urge to touch his mutilated face in a final gesture of affection, and instead merely gave him a lingering glance, and sent a thought of gratitude towards whatever may have remained of his soul.

There was some bravery given her by the sight of her husband's last stand, and now she found her eyes roaming the room for B.B.'s corpse; she found no sign of it. She turned from that room, and went to search the others, but still, she did not find it—she even checked beneath beds and in closets, in hopes of finding her daughter still hiding somewhere. But no, B.B. was nowhere to be found.

She turned to find the police trailing her, ready to reprimand her for touching anything she shouldn't, but having no need to. She had never worked around a crime scene before—by the time the police had arrived, she had always been a very safe distance away—but instinct told her what to avoid, and what was fair game. Now, wiping her face with her sleeve, she asked the question that frightened her to her very core.

"What happened to my daughter?"

The cops exchanged glances, and then gestured her out of the house. She walked carefully back down the stairs, and found two detectives awaiting her.

"Arlene, I'm so sorry," said one of them; she had met him before—he had occasioned Tommy's record store.

She bit back a sob, and merely repeated her former question, in shaky tones.

The detectives, also, exchanged glances. "We… aren't sure," the second one admitted finally. "I'm sorry, but there seems to be no sign of Beatrix. She has… disappeared."

The irony in that sentence was earth-shaking; Arlene found her hand flying out to catch her weight against the side of the apartment, lest she crumble to the ground again. "Is she…?" She could not even finish the question; but, there was no need.

"We do not have reason to believe she was killed on the scene," Detective B said carefully. "It is possible, however, that something was done to her after her abduction—we do not wish to leave you with false hopes, Mrs. Goodwin."

"No, I understand," she said slowly; for the first time in her life, she felt her gorge rising. A hand raised to press against her lips for a few moments, until she felt comfortable releasing it. "I… I…" And then the tears came, flowing like rivers; her breaths barely managed to make it past the body-racking sobs that shook her frame. One detective offered a hand of comfort, though she refused it.

"Come on, Mrs. Goodwin. We need to take you down to the station for a little while…"

She looked up with widened eyes, the sobs frozen in her throat. "Am I being… arrested?"

"No, no, Mrs. Goodwin, nothing like that. It's just…" Detective A's eyes darted away. "There are some questions we need to ask…"

"And if I don't answer correctly," she said slowly, "I'll be arrested."

It wasn't a question, but Detective B didn't catch her voice inflection properly. "That is not necessarily true, Mrs. Goodwin… We are not the enemies here!"

But that was a lie—they were all liars—they were all her enemies. If she was arrested, they'd find out her history; if they decided to do a background check, as it is, they'd discover that no record of any Arlene existed anywhere. If she were really unlucky, they'd find her fake birth certificate that she'd used to purchase her marriage license.

Briefly, she considered running; she knew she could clear the seven-foot fence that separated their lawn from El Paso's urban wilderness; she knew she could outrun them. But was it worth running? She had done so much of that already...

With a sigh, she followed Detectives A and B to their car, and allowed herself to be tucked neatly into the backseat.

* * *

"Were you or your husband involved in any gangs, or gang-related activities?"

"No," she said for the fifth time.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!" she snapped.

Detective B raised an eyebrow, but did not comment.

"Do you have any enemies? Anyone who would want to--"

"Slaughter us? No, none that I can think of," she said easily; strange, how lying had begun to sound more like the truth than honesty. Over the last few years, she had really begun to believe that she _was _Arlene Goodwin.

"Mrs. Goodwin, I know this is a hard time--"

"Yeah, just kind of," she snarled, eyes raising to latch onto his. "Are we done yet?"

With a sigh, the detective stood, and collected his papers. "I'll be back."

Jangling the chain that connected her ankle to the chair in which she was seated, she called out sweetly, "I'll wait here!"

It was not long before she felt the tears coming again. The full impact of what had happened had not quite set in, while she stood in the middle of it; it was, in fact, not until her ride to the police station that she had truly begun to cry for her husband and her child, and the fate that had befallen them. Now that the floodgates had been opened, it seemed she could no longer close them; the current would lessen occassionally, but it was always just behind the realm of visibility, waiting for a quiet moment when she could again begin to weep and mourn. She dropped her head down onto her arms, and allowed herself to sob.

Dimly, she heard the door open, heard footsteps trace their way across the floor, heard a groan as the weight of the detective sank down into the chair. She wiped her cheeks, but did not look up; it was not until she heard his voice, that she was driven to lift her gaze.

"I tried to warn you, _Arlene_, but you just wouldn't listen. All you wanted to do was throw spoons at me."

She met Budd's eyes, and snarled. "How the hell did you get in here?"

That same singular shoulder lifted in a shrug, and he smiled. "I have my ways. My brother's not the only one with tricks up his sleeve."

There was a moment of silence within her mind, a moment of complete stillness--and then, giving up the instinct of resisting every urge that came to her, she launched herself across the table, dragging the chair with her, and tackled Budd. His chair tipped backwards, and they both fell to the floor, her hands around his neck. "You son of a bitch!" she screamed.

Barely had she choked a few seconds' worth of air out of him before cops were dragging her off of him, and settling her back into her chair.

"Listen, you pull that shit again," he panted, finger pointing at her, "and you'll land yourself in a holding cell until you make bail."

She responded with a curl of her upper lip, and narrowed eyes. He rubbed his neck with one hand. "Sit still, you hear?"

"Yeah, yeah... Alright..."

The door opened again, the cops exited, and another familiar face entered. It was a beautiful one, with big Asian eyes, and the marked definition of bone structure that suggested French lineage. Sofie flipped her cell phone shut, and tucked it into her purse. "Bonjour, mon ami," she said with a sickly-sweet smile, before taking a seat next to Budd.

"Sofie flew in from Tokyo to represent you as your legal counsel," Budd said, one hand still on his throat. "Wasn't that nice of her?"

Sofie leaned forwards, hands clasping in front of her. "They have nothing on you, ..._Arlene_," she said, in that lovely French accent. "You've nothing to fear from them. They do not even have the grounds to arrest you."

"Except," added Budd, and Sofie gave a head-nod to represent acquiescence to this exception, "there's been something of a question about your background. Turns out, Texas has no record of you ever existing."

"Well, I wasn't born in Texas, was I?" In spite of herself, her voice wavered.

Sofie gave a shrug. "It doesn't work that way. There will be inquiries, and though of course there's nothing to be discovered, they may hold you on suspicion of such."

"Therefore," continued Budd, "we've got a rather urgent need to get you out of this station before they can get a warrant for your arrest."

Arlene's eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, and then she gave a nod. "Yes, I think I'd like to second that motion."

* * *

They put her in the passenger seat of Budd's car, and put her on the road towards New Mexico, with Budd at the wheel. Sofie parted ways with them almost immediately, to return to her mistress's side in Tokyo; the only call for her presence had been to have a damn good lawyer at her side, in case things got rough. Fortunately, the El Paso Police Department was something of a joke, and Sofie had been almost completely useless.

"Where are we going?" she asked Budd, swollen eyes searching for familiar road signs, and finding none, though admittedly she was unfamiliar with the western side of Texas.

"We're going home, where you belong," he said simply.

"You're returning me to Him, aren't you?" she asked, almost carelessly; she knew the answer, and therefore it was a fairly insignificant question to ask.

He nodded. "It's him who'll know, if anybody knows, how to find your kid."

"You think he'll help me, after all this time? After... what happened?"

Budd gave a shrug. "He wouldn't have done this much, if he had no intention of helping you, now would he?"

Being, however, relatively uncertain that Bill had much to do with Budd's interference, she could not agree to that sentiment. Instead, she fastened her eyes onto the passing scenery, and fell silent. They drove for several hours in that manner, with old Johnny Cash songs playing on the radio, until Budd broke the quiet with a single phrase.

"At least they let her keep that stuffed lion of hers she loved so much."

Beatrix--for she had already abandoned Arlene, had left her in that El Paso police station, along with the keys to her apartment, her wallet, and everything else that had made her who she was--found herself almost agreeing, before she caught herself, and turned a frown on Budd. "What do you mean?" she asked slowly, for it had not even occurred to her to check the apartment for B.B.'s lion.

Nervous eyes darted briefly her way, and then he shrugged. "I mean, that lion she was always carting around. It wasn't in the apartment--I assume the abductors let her keep it."

"How do you know that?" she asked, voice stronger this time, more insistent.

"I went to have a look around, after most of the cops had cleared out for the day."

That answer was, however, not at all satisfactory; with a deep frown set on her face, she turned away from him, and again slipped deep down into her thoughts while her eyes scanned the scenery.

That night, they pulled into a beat-up, run-down motel. Budd deposited her in the room, and then left to get them something to eat. She sat for several minutes, perched on the edge of the bed where he'd left her, before beginning to look around. "What am I doing here?" she asked slowly. "This is wrong..." Everything, in fact, felt wrong. She felt nervous; her neck was prickling, and her spine felt as if it wanted to leap free of her body--just as it had that day at the wedding rehearsal.

She stood abruptly, and moved to the door. After checking outside the window as best she could, she stepped out, and began a hurried walk towards Budd's car. She had almost gained it, when she felt a hand close around her wrist. "Where do you think you're going?" his voice asked, and she could hear the frown that was upon his face.

She pivoted and pushed her hand deep into his right pocket, where she'd seen him drop his car keys; while that hand closed around the keys, the other made a quick motion upwards, and shattered his nose. The stench of alcohol that seemed to follow him around had not lied to her; his instincts were dulled, the sharpness he'd once held completely obliterated. He was reeling backwards, clutching his face, even as she was driving away into the night.

As a final thought, she turned in the driver's seat, and caught a final glance of his staggering form. She murmured, more to herself than to him, "This isn't the last time I'll spill your blood, you bastard..."


End file.
